


They Were Kids That I Once Knew

by Black_Hole_of_Procrastination



Category: A Song of Ice and Fire - George R. R. Martin, Game of Thrones (TV)
Genre: F/M, Fluff, Shireen and Rickon are precious babies that must be protected, drabbles from tumblr, more friendship than ship
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2015-06-09
Updated: 2015-06-12
Packaged: 2018-04-03 17:05:25
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 4
Words: 2,068
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4108429
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Black_Hole_of_Procrastination/pseuds/Black_Hole_of_Procrastination
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Shireen finds the last thing she expected at Winterfell: a friend. </p>
<p> </p>
<p>A drabble series from my tumblr where Shireen and Rickon are alive and safe at Winterfell. (Stannis wins the Battle of Winterfell. Davos’ mission to Skagos is a success.)</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Names

**_Names_ **

 

Shireen is on the outer battlements, her hood drawn tight against the wind, when Ser Davos returns. She peers eagerly into the distance, watching dark figures materialize against the snows. 

As they draw closer it is not the Onion Knight nor the score of men bearing merman banners that catch the princess’s eye, but a small boy riding on the back of great black direwolf. 

Word spreads quickly throughout the castle and Shireen can’t help but be caught up in the excitement. 

The last Stark of Winterfell, returned at last.

Shireen tries to bury her disappointment when Mother hurries her off to bed without catching a closer look at the Stark boy, but her disappointment only grows as the Stark boy is absent from meals in the hall and scarcely seen about the keep over the next few days. 

Father says that Lord Stark has been through many trials and it’s best he be left alone. 

Mother warns her away too, complaining that he is more beast than boy. 

Shireen can’t help but think maybe that is a good thing. 

The few children of servants lurking about Winterfell are too frightened to play with her, staring at her scars as they pass and scurrying away when they are caught out. 

Shireen tries not to mind, but it’s been so very long since she had another child to play with (not since Edric) and she thinks perhaps it would be nice to have a friend. 

_Surely a boy who rides a wolf is not frightened of anything. Not even of scars._

It’s several days before Shireen manages to escape her lessons long enough to go in search of the boy.

After days of hoping to catch a glimpse of him, she knows better than to look about the keep.

She finds him hiding in the godswood, curled against his wolf at the foot of a weirwood. 

“Hello,” she says, moving into the clearing.

Both boy and wolf spring to their feet, the boy bearing some kind of blade, the wolf baring its teeth. 

Shireen pauses, considering the pair before her. 

The wolf is as large as a draught horse, much larger than the one the Lord Commander kept at the Wall. It makes rather a fearsome sight with its snarling teeth and dark fur matted with burs and dirt. 

Beside it, the boy is little better, his red curls hanging in a tangle well past his shoulders, a filthy mantle of different colored furs pinned at his throat.

Up this close, she realizes he’s younger than she thought. No more than six or seven at the most.

_He’s just a little boy._

Shireen takes a cautious step closer, her hands stretched out in front of her.

“I’m not here to hurt you.”

The boy remains silent, though he is no longer scowls and the blade has lowered to his side.

The wolf must agree that she is not much of a threat, for he slumps back onto the ground.

“My name is Shireen,” she ventures, taking another step forward. “Is this your wolf? He’s beautiful. I saw Lord Commander Snow’s direwolf at Castle Black but he was white and not nearly so big.” 

Something changes in the boy’s face at the mention of Lord Snow that gives Shireen the courage to be bold.

“May I touch him?”

Rickon considers her a moment, before giving a slight nod. 

Shireen moves towards the wolf, hoping she does not look as frightened as she feels. 

She holds her breath as she reaches out to ghost her fingers over the top of the direwolf’s head. When the animal does not pull away or snap at her hand, she giddly runs her fingers over the soft fur of its head again. 

“Does your wolf have a name?”

The boy surprises her, speaking at long last.

“Shaggydog.”   

Shireen almost laughs, but stops when she catches the earnest look on the boy’s face. 

She places a tentative hand on the wolf’s ruff.

“Hello Shaggydog. I’m very happy to meet you.”

Shireen nearly jumps out of her skin when the wolf shifts, pressing the flat of its muzzle against her palm. 

Astonished, she turns to Rickon who is smiling so wide she can see the gap where one of his front teeth has fallen out. 

Shireen smiles right back. 


	2. Words

_**Words** _

 

Shireen is used to silence.

From the servants. From her parents. There were times, sitting alone in her chamber at the Wall, when the quiet felt like all she’d ever known.

But for all that she is used to silence, she is hungry for words.

Tales. Songs. Japes. She savors each one, letting the words roll about in her mind before storing them away for when the quiet returns.

She is not so alone here as she was at The Wall. Here there is Rickon. 

Rickon, who climbs the great trees in the godswood and sneaks rolls from the kitchen and rides on the back of a wolf.

Rickon, who can be as frustratingly silent as any of them.

Words from Rickon are hard won. He can go days without uttering sound. (Perhaps that is to be expected from a small boy whose closest companion is a direwolf).

Still Shireen finds herself making a game of it, coaxing and prodding Rickon into speech, each word uttered a sort of victory.

When she overhears him speaking rapidly in the Old Tongue with his keeper, a wildling woman named Osha, Shireen cannot help but feel jealous. 

She demands that he teach her the Old Tongue and the next day they begin lessons in the godswood.

Each day is filled with new words. They feel strange and unwieldy on her tongue but she repeats each one until it feels sure.

Rickon makes for a very poor teacher. Often he is too impatient to repeat himself and he howls with laughter at every mistake.

But Shireen will not back down. 

“You sound like a dying bear!” he crows from his perch on weirwood root.

Shireen scowls, though she is more frustrated with herself than with him.

“Say it again!” she insists. “I did not hear it right the first time.”

Rickon says the word again, snickering all the while.

It is more of a grunt than a word, but Shireen takes her time, repeating each sound slowly.

Rickon gives a short nod, which is as much praise as she ever seems to get.

“What does it mean?”

He shoots her a grin.

“Friend.” 


	3. Scars

**_Scars_ **

It is Shireen who finally coaxes Rickon into letting Osha cut his hair (with promises of honey cakes should he behave).

He squirms restlessly on the stool as Osha circles him with a pair of shears in hand. 

His hair is near as long as Shireen’s now, the ends brushing well past his shoulders.

 _How long since it was last cut?_  she wonders.  _Months? Years?_

However long it’s been, she’s sure it’s been nearly just as long since he’s put a brush to it. So much of it is matted and tangled it will be a wonder if there is any left for Osha to salvage. 

Rickon holds still (as promised) but he grimaces with each cut. 

Shireen watches in fascination as his hair falls to the ground piece by piece.

In the end, Osha manages to leave just enough that the ends brush the tips of his ears.

“Much better,” Shireen teases, reaching out muss his curls. “Now we can see your eyes at last.”

She expects him to bat her hand away or to scamper off to the kitchens to collect on his promised reward. 

Instead, he surprises her by reaching forward to touch her own hair. 

His hand skims over the braid that wraps around the crown of her head. Mother made it too tight this morning, but the pulling at her scalp is forgotten at the feel of curious fingers. 

Her breath stops when his hand moves lower, ghosting over the skin of her forehead before probing at the stiff ridges that mark her cheek.

She watches his brow furrow, his face screwed up in a way she’s come to know well. It is the look he gets when he does not understand. 

They never speak about her scars. Shireen always supposed it did not matter to Rickon or, as with so many things it seemed, he simply did not notice. 

Now she wonders if it matters after all.

“They are scars,” she explains, her voice sounding surer than she feels. “I’ve had them since I was little.”

He stares a moment longer, before lowering his hand and taking a quick step back.

_He is afraid of me._

Shireen swallows, tears beginning to well in her eyes. 

She is about to excuse herself from the room, when Rickon begins pulling his tunic free from breeches. She watches in confusion as he rucks the fabric up to reveal the pale expanse of his stomach.

“Oh Rickon!”

Shireen stares in horror at the gash that stretches from under his arm down the length of his side. It’s an old wound, healed over now, the skin puckered and slightly pink against the stark white of his skin. 

“I was hunting,” he says, chest puffed out proudly. “Scars show you are brave.”

“That they do, little lord,” Osha smiles, moving forward to tug Rickon’s tunic back into order. 

He’s grinning at Shireen, and she feels the prickle of tears in her eyes once more.

“Now off with the both of you!” Osha shoos them with a gentle nudge. “Go and see about those cakes.”

Rickon does not need to be told twice. He grabs Shireen’s hand and tugs her out the door. 

Together they race towards the kitchens hand in hand.  


	4. Gifts

**_Gifts_ **

 

It starts with a dagger.

It is a crude thing, fashioned from bone, with leather wrapped about the thicker end as a sort of handle. It is similar to the one she knows Rickon keeps tucked in his boot.

“Now you can hunt with Shaggy and me!” he says, presenting the blade to her one morning after lessons.

Shireen doubts Father would approve of her carrying a weapon let alone allow her to hunt with it, but she thanks Rickon just the same. 

It’s been an age since she received a present (not since her last nameday on Dragonstone) and she is touched that he took the time to make her such a thing. 

The dagger is only the beginning. One by one, gifts appear in Rickon’s hand. 

A shard of dragon’s glass no bigger than her thumbnail. A robin’s egg, cracked and empty, but beautifully speckled blue. A brace of rabbits, freshly caught.

They are hardly appropriate gifts for a princess, but Rickon presents each one with such pride she cannot help but smile. 

She wants to give him something in return, but isn’t certain what. He does not care for books as she does (he can scarcely write his name) and any clothes she might sew for him he would only tear or dirty the next day. 

Finally, while exploring some of the rooms in the Great Keep still damaged from the fire, she finds the perfect gift. It is tucked away in a half-charred trunk filled with musty furs and woolen bedclothes. 

A small wooden knight. 

Shireen holds it carefully, examining her treasure. It is well-carved, although the details on the helm and shield are worn over and the lance has been broken off. 

 _Was this his?_  she wonders. It was certainly possible. The family’s rooms had been among those burned during the siege. 

She tucks the knight under her arm, eager with the possibility of returning something to Rickon he once thought gone. 

She presents it to him that afternoon, smiling as he takes the knight in both his hands. 

Her face falls as she watches Rickon’s brow furrow as he considers the knight.

“I’m sorry,” she says, the gift now seeming foolish. “I thought—I thought it might be yours.”

“No,” he murmurs, fingers tracing over the faded heraldry on the shield. “Bran’s.”

Guilt washes over Shireen, and settles heavy in her stomach.

_Of course. Brandon. His brother._

She is considering how best to apologize for her blunder, when two skinny arms lock around her in a vice. 

She hesitates a moment, surprised, before returning the embrace just as fiercely. 

_Perhaps the gift is not so foolish after all._


End file.
